


Buzz

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected haircut throws Lindir and Thorin into turmoil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buzz

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “During a fight/accident/whatever, Elrond's hair gets cut very short. He's embarrassed by this. Someone(everyone?) else thinks it makes him look incredible. Cue one or more or all of the characters suddenly trying to seduce him. Bonus if Thorin is one of the infatuated” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11476.html?thread=23569620#t23569620).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The Last Homely House is meant to be just that. The elves that occupy it are polite to all guests, offering rest and food and an overall pleasant time. Lindir is in charge of most of these arrangements, and he does his best to relay Lord Elrond’s wishes. Even when his patrons are... less than savoury.

The dwarves are nothing short of irritating. Lindir, of course, keeps a straight face, stands tall with his hands behind his back, and walks as calmly as ever, but inside, it’s chipping away at him. Thorin Oakenshield is the most imposing of all of them, and he picks out Lindir to hound. While Lindir takes his usual morning stroll towards the training enclose in the hopes of watching his Lord Elrond engaged in a dance of swords, Thorin stomps after him. The dwarf’s heavy boots trail mud all throughout the gleaming halls, and Lindir tries to not look back and succumb to such unpleasant things. He listens politely while Thorin goes off on a tirade, shouting, “They had no right to take Bofur’s flute!”

Lindir tries to explain, “If his... _music_... was disruptive, perhaps it would be best—”

But of course Thorin just snaps, “It was a livelier piece than the somber marches of you elves. I won’t have your people stifling mine.”

It takes everything Lindir has to say only, “I will speak to Lord Elrond.” It isn’t at all a lie; he speaks to his lord every day, but the words won’t likely be what Thorin wants them. He can hear a faint growling grow in the back of the dwarf’s throat, and he expects more angered shouts to come. Instead, they’re both forced to halt suddenly as an elf emerges from between columns, cutting quickly across their path. With one hand over her mouth and her brown cheeks flushed even darker, she hurries quickly away without a word to them. Her long, black hair streams busily out behind her, and Lindir glances after her, wondering at such rudeness. It’s rare to find elves, as long-lived and elegant as they are, so preoccupied. 

Assuming immediately that something’s happened, Lindir turns the way she came. It leads directly to the courtyards designated for weaponry skills: precisely where Lindir would’ve liked to go, were there no dwarf in his wake just waiting to be inflicted on poor Lord Elrond.

Lindir’s barely taken a step when another elf appears at the end of the corridor, and at first, Lindir doesn’t recognize them. A split second later, he feels foolish for such a thought: he knows _exactly_ who it is, would know them anywhere. He stops in his tracks, Thorin halting at his side, while the elf sweeps towards them, long robes swaying in the briskness of his gate. Where his hair would normally be brushed along his shoulders, only a few severed strands remain.

Lord Elrond comes to stand before them, his hair jarringly sliced just short of his ears. It’s in a wind-torn, wild mess, creating teasing peaks and valleys that would never appear in the usual smooth, flat hair of an elf. There’s something almost _obscene_ about the way Lord Elrond’s neck is trimmed bare. Lindir feels vaguely like he’s seeing his lord in a state of undress, bizarrely vulnerable and _forbidden._

He suddenly understands why the elf passing them was blushing. He knows immediately what must’ve happened: a stray sword gone awry. Such a thing is unlikely with the standard of elves in Rivendell and his lordship’s skills, but it isn’t impossible. Lindir can feel his own face turning warm, then boiling hot, and he ducks his eyes as though unworthy to look upon such an illicit and incredible sight. 

He only remembers the dwarf beside him when he hears a short grunt. Sneaking a glance up, he sees Lord Elrond barely stifle a wince. It must be horribly embarrassing—Lindir himself would fall apart if he were ever to lose his hair in public. He’s hugely relieved when Thorin doesn’t laugh. 

Lord Elrond sighs, “Obviously, there has been an... incident. I will require your assistance, Lindir, in the handling of this.”

Lindir licks his lips without meaning to and bows his head in acquiescence. He thinks of asking Gandalf about it—perhaps a spell can be used to speed growth, and they are luckily in possession of a wizard at the moment. But he can’t bear to suggest anything that might change Lord Elrond’s current looks, so enticing and handsome as they are, so Lindir holds his tongue. 

Lord Elrond is _always_ handsome. But Lindir has been able to restrain himself in the past, whereas now he is experiencing the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and offer to please his lord in every conceivable way. While he struggles for the right words, Lord Elrond shifts his gaze to Thorin and asks, “What may I do for you, Master Dwarf?”

When Thorin doesn’t answer right away—an usual thing for an overbearing dwarf—Lindir looks down at him. Lindir immediately wishes he hadn’t. The look on Thorin’s face is unmistakable. It’s every bit as hungry as Lindir feels, except it comes with a lecherous, greedy want that leaves Lindir’s stomach clenching in unease and fright. He briefly entertains the ludicrous notion of shoving Thorin away, but Thorin starts too soon, “I didn’t know elves fought for sport. ...Perhaps we could have a match.” The suggestiveness in his tone is unmistakable. His eyes are unwavering. He speaks of fighting, but it’s obvious the hair is what he’s interested in. Clearly, he wants to run his grubby little paws all through it, fist and tug and wreck the remains. 

If anyone’s fingers should be in Lord Elrond’s hair, it should be _Lindir’s_.  
He’s the one that often brushed it the old way, that washed it on occasion, that offered intricate braids or the weaving in of flowers and branches. He knows that jealousy is unbecoming, and yet he feels himself twisting to Lord Elrond’s side. He loops his arm around his lord’s and nearly coos, “Perhaps we should wash and comb it, my lord, and see what can be done.” It looks perfect _now_ , of course, wild and wanton—Lord Elrond’s never been so attractive—but Lindir tries to stay respectful. 

Lord Elrond looks at him, considering, and Thorin growls, “You would have a more... _stimulating_... time matching swords with me.”

Lindir’s hands tighten imperceptibly around his lord’s arm. But Elrond has always placed too much importance on diplomacy, and he does regard Thorin with a fair gaze.

So Lindir has to step up his game. He feels utterly shameful for resorting to such tactics, but the new hair drives him to it. He flattens his body lushly against Lord Elrond’s side, he makes his voice into a small, needy whine, and he begs, “My lord, _please_... come with me.”

For a moment, Lord Elrond looks at him, expression thoughtful. Lindir can only hope that his clear admiration eases any of Lord Elrond’s suffering. In the distant background that Lindir pays little attention to, Thorin is borderline growling again. 

But Lord Elrond decides, “Very well.” He lets Lindir sweep him away down the corridor, headed straight for his lordship’s quarters.

It takes everything Lindir has not to look over his shoulder and stick out his tongue at Thorin Oakenshield.


End file.
